


Not Expecting Your Sympathy (It's All Been Too Much for Me)

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Crowley, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22942939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: They won and the world is safe, and all it’s cost is a Bentley (that’s fine, demons shouldn’t have things, shouldn’t love things and it was only a car, it’s not like it matters) and a bookshop (that’s fine, it wasn’t even his, why should he be sad about that) so he should be fine.Crowley isn't fine. Aziraphale tries to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 368
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works), Week 2: Minimalism





	Not Expecting Your Sympathy (It's All Been Too Much for Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'minimalism' prompt on the Ineffable Husbands facebook group. Sorry, guys; I shouldn't be left unsupervised with comedic prompts otherwise they turn into this. 
> 
> Title is stolen from the Robbie Williams song 'Monsoon.'

The world is doing a good job of pulling away from him. Doesn’t seem fair somehow, that they saved the world and it’s not going to be for them. Saving it for the humans will have to be enough.

Crowley sighs, props his head against the bus window. He hadn’t realised it was possible to be this tired. He’s heard of people dying from exhaustion; he’s not sure if that’s possible for demons but he can’t shake the feeling he’s about to find out.

Every part of him aches; his eyes are so sore that he’s been blinking for the past few miles, glad that Azirphale can’t see through his glasses. Almost wishing that after all these years, the angel hadn’t chosen right now to sit alongside him. And he’s sitting the on outside; what if someone tried to grab him?

Crowley ought to get him to move, to at least switch seats so he’s got some kind of protection.

He can’t summon up the energy to move his head from the glass.

‘Crowley?’

 _I’ll never speak to you again. I’ll never speak to you again._ That was why he’d done it, wasn’t it? That was why he was currently sitting in a cold dark bus wondering if any of his limbs still worked, instead of watching the Earth turn into burning goo – so an angel would still talk to a demon that had never done anything to deserve it.

He finds himself rubbing his fingers together; cold, almost nerveless; not enough energy to snap for a miracle. It takes almost the same amount of strength to reply. ‘Yeah?’

‘We’re going to be another hour or so. Why don’t you sleep?’

An echo of a past conversation: Aziraphale saying something about evil being ever vigilant, his own voice quipping that he’d got used to getting his head down occasionally. All the details lost, except how Aziraphale had smiled at him in return. He’s smiling now, all blue eyes and white curls and underneath it all, the strength of a Principality; a guardian angel who’d held a flaming sword in one hand, and a frightened child’s hand in the other earlier today.

Crowley realises, dimly, that he should feel afraid. That he should have been afraid of that power earlier, rather than the threat he’d made. But even like this, as near to defenceless as he can be without blessed chains or similar being involved, he isn’t.

‘Are you…what if…’

‘Crowley, I can deal with anything that happens here. Go to sleep.’

His eyes close without his consent. Aziraphale’s hand lands on top of his; fingers lace around his and then squeeze. He wants to think about it, to at least stay awake long enough to experience it, but the world pulls away even further, shades itself in grey and black and flame red and he’s Falling –

 _None of that. No dreaming now._ An order dressed in kindness echoes through his mind.

He doesn’t.

The world hurtles back a long long while before he’s ready for it; something like a hangover mixed with the sour taste of old adrenaline and the dust of smoke not quite washed away by wine. Aziraphale is pulling gently at his hand.

‘Come on, dearest. We’re here.’

Standing is an effort. Walking down the bus aisle and down the steps, out into the summer night, is an effort. The world’s swaying; a few stars are smeared patterns across the night sky, not staying still enough for him to recognise.

He wants to point it out to Aziraphale. It feels important enough to point out, but his voice, his stupid, pointless voice, is insisting that anything he says will come out as a sob.

Aziraphale’s lost the bookshop. He doesn’t need Crowley pointing out lost stars as well. Well, given that Armageddon is over, he probably doesn’t need Crowley at all any more.

‘Crowley?’

He blinks again, and realises they’ve stopped walking. He tries to lean against something; realises a second too late it’s the angel. Doesn’t matter, his legs aren’t going to work another step tonight. He sags.

‘Dearest, don’t cry.’

He’s not crying. Demons don’t cry.

Anyway, they won. That’s all that matters.

They won and the world is safe, and all it’s cost is a Bentley (that’s fine, demons shouldn’t have things, shouldn’t love things and it was only a car, it’s not like it matters) and a bookshop (that’s fine, it wasn’t even his, why should he be sad about that, he should feel bad for Aziraphale and he does, so much, but he’s never going to lay on his couch under his blankets again, listening to the angel reading him poetry, what a stupid thing to be sad about, it’s not like anything there was actually his) and Aziraphale didn’t really die and he didn’t really murder Ligur because self-defence doesn’t count, so why is he feeling sorry for Hastur, who’d screamed the way he’d screamed when Aziraphale was dead, they won, they won, they won, they…

They won. It’s fine.

When he finally opens his eyes, the stars have moved. It takes him a moment to realise that he’s seeing them from almost ground level, looking up over Aziraphale’s shoulder. They’re sitting on the kerb together and his fingers are locked into the fabric of the angel’s coat. He’s left trails of soot and dust, the ruin of himself, across Aziraphale’s clothes.

‘Sorry,’ and he isn’t sure what he’s apologising for. His throat is tight. Feels like claws pressing inwards, which matches how his stomach and heart feel at the moment. ‘Gah. Sorry, angel. I’m sorry.’

‘Crowley, my dearest. You saved the world today. You have nothing to be sorry for.’

He realises then that the gentle contact is Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair, Aziraphale’s arm around his shoulders. Something that’s very close to an embrace. They’re sitting beneath a streetlight that doesn’t normally dare work when Crowley’s in his flat, and they’re alone.

He has so much to be sorry for that he can’t imagine where to start. It’s easier just to let his head fall forward, let Aziraphale hold him for a moment and pretend. Maybe they can steal a few minutes like this and the minutes will turn into hours and days and centuries and no-one else will ever notice and they’ll leave Aziraphale alone, because that’s all that matters now, that they leave his angel alone…

‘Oh Crowley. Oh, Crowley my love. Please. It’s alright.’

Aziraphale’s stroking his hair again, long repetitive movements that trace downwards, over his neck, across the tension-tight muscles of his shoulders. Easing away some of the pain with each touch.

He’s so tired.

‘Can you stand up? I think we should go inside now.’

He can’t. He can hardly breathe. But Aziraphale wants, so he braces every aching part of himself and lunges forward, lets the angel drag him to his feet, doesn’t say anything when Aziraphale slips an arm around his waist and _holds._ A broken demon can’t fight angelic strength.

Aziraphale talks to him; there’s a stream of words he doesn’t quite hear or understand, because he hadn’t been brave, he hadn’t done well; he’d done everything just so Aziraphale wouldn’t carry out that awful threat.

_I’ll never talk to you again._

All he really wants to know is if Aziraphale is going to follow through on that promise; if there was something better or different he could have done, because he didn’t save the bookshop and that was Aziraphale’s world so... He heaves a breath, air stuttering through too sharp teeth as they reach the front door to the flats and Aziraphale turns to look at him as he reaches out.

‘I’m proud of you, Crowley.’

His pockets are nearly empty; he can’t find the key and it should know better than to keep him out anyway. He gathers the fragments of his will and snaps his fingers, trying to remind the wards of their job. Aziraphale is looking at him.

‘They’ll let you in, angel. Set it up for you.’ It takes him a moment to realise he hasn’t managed to explain that aloud.

By somebody’s grace, the building’s empty. He’s still swaying on his feet, a mess of grief and sharp edges only partially soothed by the arm around his waist, and Aziraphale’s still talking as they get into the lift and the jolt as it slides into movement throws him off balance again. Aziraphale catches him.

Stepping out onto his floor, he wants to say something. He’s dreamt – hoped – fantasised if he’s honest – about having Aziraphale here. He didn’t want to be tearful and exhausted and useless for it. Settles for ‘make yourself at home.’

‘Thank you,’ and Aziraphale pulls him close for a moment.

He doesn’t realise he’s being kissed until Aziraphale is already moving away, the memory of his lips a burning weight against Crowley’s forehead. Exhaustion washes away in the wake of it, flood water forcing itself through old barriers and taking away only unpleasant things.

‘Don’t go in there,’ he manages a second later, memory kicking in.

‘Sorry?’

He waves a hand, trying to think. Trying to find the words. ‘Ligur. Dead. In there.’

‘You killed him?’

This must be it, the first part of the rejection. Aziraphale is not a killer and he is, now. Deliberate, planned; he’d watched Ligur die at his hands and he’d tried to do the same to Hastur, and Aziraphale will be sickened by him. ‘The…the Holy Water,’ he mumbles, and it feels like a confession, bringing a wave of guilt in the wake.

‘Stay there. Crowley, I want you to sit there,’ he waves at a chair that Crowley’s dimly sure he didn’t own a second ago, ‘and don’t come any closer. I’ll deal with it.’

Perhaps he should have known that a warrior would know about dealing with the aftermath.

Crowley falls onto the chair. Obeys. Takes advantage of the solitude to remove his glasses and rub at his eyes, try and straighten his hair. Miracles feel a very long way away, no matter how much he focuses.

Aziraphale comes back a few minutes later, grim faced; moving with a soldier’s poise still. ‘Done. I’ve got rid of everything,’ and Crowley feels his heart constrict, in case that means the flask as well; the stupid tartan thing that he’d come to regard as proof that Aziraphale had loved him once, if only for as long as it had taken him to prepare it and hand it over. Why else would he have chosen that pattern?

‘Your flask’s on the table, and perfectly safe if you want it.’

He hopes Aziraphale understands the thank you he can’t say.

They walk into the front room together; Crowley doesn’t spare the energy to look around, just trusts Aziraphale got it right. Hosting…he needs to get it together. Aziraphale will want a meal, he wants to sleep, he hasn’t even got enough seats for them to sit together… A dead demon isn’t what he’d wanted to bring Aziraphale home to.

And the bookshop’s gone. The angel’s loved that place ever since the September day they’d been walking in Soho and he’d seen an empty building, half gone to ruin and the sun setting behind it. He’d sent the rest of the walk talking about what a wonderful bookshop it could be, and the next three days talking about how angels didn’t ought to own anything like that. Crowley had talked him into it, spent months persuading him to buy it. He ought to be trying to make it better.

‘Aziraphale, do you want anything?’ His voice sounds thin even to himself, slurred and slow.

‘I think…I think we both need some rest first, dearest.’

He wants to argue, but he thinks he might pass out if he tries. Settles for ‘bed’s through there if you want.’

Aziraphale looks at him. ‘I want you to sleep, Crowley. I’ll come in with you, but you need to sleep.’

He remembers a night in Rome, when her mouth was full of blood and loss and she’d thought she was dying from the horror of what they’d watched together. A night in a ghost grey building in Glencoe, when the wind had sung elegies around the eaves all night. A night in London that never got dark because the fire had burnt too fiercely. It won’t be the first time he’s slept with Aziraphale.

‘There’s only one bed,’ he mutters.

A smile in response. ‘Only one bed? Had you down as more slothful than that.’

He tries to smile back. ‘It’s called minimalism. Saves on the dusting. You should look it up…’ and the rest of the sentence was going to be ‘for the shop,’ and he remembers all over again. It’s gone.

He sees the loss cloud Aziraphale’s eyes. Sees it get forced away. ‘Bed. C’mon.’

He allows himself to be led into his own room; cedes control entirely for a while. Demon trusting an angel not only not to smite him, but to stand with him as he goes to snap his fingers to change clothes and realises he can’t, that he hasn’t got the strength left for now, so he gets changed the human way. Trusts the angel not to look; trusts the angel to stand guard while he’s vulnerable.

Trusts the angel to slide into the bed next to him, a hand reaching out to his hair, and he lays there with his eyes closed.

‘Crowley, dearest, can I try something?’

He thinks of listing all the things he’d let Aziraphale do – things he’d like Aziraphale to do. ‘Anything you like.’

Aziraphale cradles a hand around his cheek, fingers caressing his skin and the frame of his glasses. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

‘I know.’

He feels the miracle ripple across his body; every part of his skin. His teeth tingle with it. The warmth lasts a couple of seconds; he feels like he’s been dumped in a warm bath. ‘What was th- did I really smell that bad, angel?’

Aziraphale still hasn’t let go of his face. ‘No. You didn’t. But I didn’t think the smoke smell would help you sleep.’

He’s too tired to protest. Too tired to say something like ‘stop using frivolous miracles on me,’ so he just nods.

‘Come here, my dear.’

He lets himself be pulled into the circle of Aziraphale’s arms, and finally, finally, lets the world slip away without fighting it. Hears, on the edge of consciousness ‘my brave demon. My dearest Crowley. My love.’

The words haunt his dreams that night. They follow him back into reality with the sun rise. They follow him, and fill his heart, for all the centuries and millennia to come, and they’re true.


End file.
